She was waiting for him on a bench that offered a view of the Supreme Court building. She was eating a Power Bar and sipping a Starbucks.

“Breakfast?” Levering said, sitting next to her.

“And lunch and dinner,” she said. “This will take me to eleven o’clock tonight.”

The senator shook his head. “Aren’t you afraid of burnout, Anne?”

“No. Spontaneous combustion. If I’m not moving forward, I’m afraid I’ll explode.”

“What about your personal life?”

She looked at him. At least he assumed she was looking at him through her dark glasses. “Why the sudden interest in my personal life?”

Levering shrugged. “I was just thinking. You haven’t got a family. Maybe you should think about it.”

“Don’t go family values on me, Senator. I could not handle that paradigm shift.”

“Hey, you’re free to live your life.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But it’s your life we should be talking about.”

“Go.”

Anne finished her Power Bar, tossing the wrapper into a trash can. Then she took a sip of coffee to wash it down. “Hollander,” she said. “Caution.”

“Why?”

“How much is Francis behind her for chief?”

“All the way. I made sure of that.”

“Tell him not to say anything yet.”

Levering used one of Anne’s favorite lines. “Detail me,” he said.

“The last thing you need is an unstable chief of the Supreme Court.”

“You talking because of the accident?”

“Of course.”

“But Millie Hollander has always been steady as a rock.”

“Accidents do things to people.”

“Yeah, but she’s been given a clean bill of health.”

“Physically, yes.”

Levering said, “Just tell me what you’re driving at.”

“They allowed her to go home yesterday. You may have seen the news.”

“I did.”

“Well, it may interest you to know that Madame Justice did not go straight to her home.”

Levering was duly impressed. “Are you telling me you tailed a justice of the highest court in the land?”

Anne fetched a cigarette from her purse. “Just doing my job. There’s a Barnes & Noble in a mall just over the Virginia line. Hollander’s car pulled up in front and the driver got out. He went into the bookstore and came out a few minutes later.”

“Big deal,” Levering said. “Maybe he wanted a magazine.”

Anne looked at him with mock disdain. “Would I be telling you this if I didn’t know what he came out with?”

“You know?”

“Of course I know.”

“Mind telling me how?”

“Let’s just say you can do a lot with a computer and a little money given to the right people.”

That was a political truth Levering had long been aware of. “So?”

“Ever hear of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross?”

“She a judge?”

“No, an author. She wrote about death.”

“Sounds like the life of the party.”

Anne ignored him. “Her most famous book is On Death and Dying. That’s one of the books the driver bought. The other was one called On Life After Death.”

Levering thought about this for a moment. “What do you make of it?”

“Red flag, Senator,” Anne said. “You’ve got a middle-aged woman who is almost killed by a car. She just happens to be a Supreme Court justice, but let that pass. She is suddenly very aware of her mortality. She wants to read books about death. On life after death. Now what would you say was going on?”

“Maybe she bought them for a friend?”

Anne blew an angry breath into the Washington, D.C., air. “Don’t avoid the obvious. She got shaken up. Not just physically, but mentally. When somebody starts thinking about death, things happen. Who knows what?”

Levering shook his head. “I can’t see it making a big difference.”

“Oh, you can’t. Well, do you believe in life after death?”

That one hit him like a question from O’Reilly. “No,” he said, wondering at that moment if he really believed it himself.

“Right. Now who does believe we pass into some heavenly reward? Or get reprocessed as something else? Answer: religious folks. What would happen if Justice Hollander got a sudden dose of religion?”

A bus rumbled by, belching exhaust. Levering watched it for a moment, sensing things getting cloudy. “I’m not worried,” he said.

“That makes one of us.”

“Besides, we have our little backup plan if we ever need it.”

Anne shook her head. “Only as a last resort.”

“So what do we do?”

“Whatever I say,” she said. “Agreed?”

Levering felt oddly secure. “Darlin’, you da man.”

Walking gingerly up the ramp at LAX, Millie felt remarkably good. She did have a cane, one of those aluminum jobs that were standard hospital issue, but didn’t need to use it. Residual pain, for the moment, was muted. Dr. Cross would be pleased.

She hoped Mom was feeling well. Millie knew her accident, and the aftermath, had been hard on Ethel Hollander. The last time they had talked on the phone, her mother’s voice sounded a little slower than normal. As Millie hobbled through the gate, she was anxious to see her mother’s face.

What she saw, however, was a chaos of reporters. Only this time Dr. Cross was not there to intervene. She had been offered a secret service escort, but declined. She had never been one for governmental intrusion – into the lives of citizens or on behalf of justices. When she was off the bench she wanted to be an ordinary citizen herself. And she couldn’t imagine a secret service agent hovering around her in Santa Lucia. It would simply draw more attention.

Security was everywhere. Men in blue coats and Los Angeles police officers kept order. Lights glared and microphones bobbed at her face. A few questions were shouted simultaneously. Millie put up her hands.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said. “I am feeling pretty well. Much better than I was a week ago, I can assure you. I’ve come out here for some rest and will be thankful if I can avoid answering questions at this time.” She looked around the crowd for her mother. No sign.

“Have you had any word on becoming chief justice?” a female reporter shouted.

“No word. Thank you.” She made an attempt to move forward but the reporters, like a giant amoeba, moved with her.

“Madame Justice, do you feel you can handle the job?” a male reporter asked.

“My only job now is to rest,” Millie said, wondering if her face was giving her away. “I just need to…” And then she saw her mother waving behind the reporters.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, trying to move on through. An airport guard told the reporters to clear a path.

“Can you tell us anything else about the accident?” a voice shouted. Another asked, “Was it really an accident?”

The question jarred her, even as she reached her mother. Millie hugged her as cameras whirred and clicked. Her mother felt a little thinner than Millie remembered, but with the same tough hide.

The slick reporter shoved his microphone toward Ethel Hollander. “Is it good to see your daughter?”

Ethel scowled at him. “That’s about the dumbest question I ever heard from a grown man.”

Slick stood up as if slapped. Millie could not help enjoying his look. “Case closed,” she said.

Ethel had a car, a giant Cadillac – circa 1970 and covered with desert dust – waiting in the short-term parking. Behind the wheel sat a stout, friendly looking man. Ethel introduced him as Royal King.

“That’s my real name, too,” he said.

But he drove like a joker. The trip was an adventure in near misses that finally got them to the 405 freeway, heading north. Millie, reclining in the passenger seat, at least felt relieved to finally be heading for some peace.

“How are things in town?” Millie asked her mother.

“Same as always,” Ethel said. “Only more so.”

“Ah,” Millie said, enjoying one of her mother’s famous non-sequiturs. She usually made sense once you unpacked the verbiage.